


Call for the Living

by AreYouReady



Category: Call for the Dead - John le Carré, LE CARRE John - Works, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: (definitely there but not overpowering), (lots of it), (some), Angst, Dating, First Dates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, George feels big guilty about Dieter, Getting Together, Homophobia, Humor, Kinda, M/M, Sloppy Makeouts, but nothing bad happens, crosstagged to ttss because it's smileyverse fic and ttss is kind of a general tag for that, george panics a lot though, it's them acting on something they've been kinda dancing around since they met, like the existence of homophobia is acknowledged and ever-present, not exactly because like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreYouReady/pseuds/AreYouReady
Summary: George Smiley works up his courage, and telephones Inspector Mendel to make good on cancelled plans.





	Call for the Living

**Author's Note:**

> This is the worst title I've ever given a fic. 
> 
> Beta'd by my beautiful gf PegasusWrites.
> 
> This takes place after all of Call for the Dead except George flying to Switzerland, and is canon compliant except that I think George might have gone to Switzerland pretty soon after Dieter's death, and in this, he's still in England several weeks after. This will probably become a series so he will go to Switzerland eventually.
> 
> Also, the name Oliver comes from a legacy of spies. John le Carre gave Inspector Mendel the worst first name ever, but I guess we have to live with it. This fic isn't actually canon compliant with Legacy, though, since Mendel having a wife is fake.

George stared at the telephone receiver, fingering his shirt cuffs.

He was surrounded by the debris of three weeks’ melancholic malaise: five or six crumb covered plates on his bedside table, reflecting the past two days’ meals of toast, eaten in bed; next to them, a pile of books, selected from his shelves, begun, but then left unfinished; on the floor, a pile of pajama trousers and accompanying dressing gowns, but no corresponding daytime clothes, as none had been worn. Other parts of the house, particularly the kitchen, were worse, but George did not have to see them so often, and so was unbothered by them.

But at the moment, he was shaved, bathed, and dressed, not because he had any intention of leaving the house, but because it made him feel slightly more ready to face the world, and his own choices. He lifted the receiver in his left hand. Ann’s letter, from its place of honor on his windowsill, seemed to watch him.

Inspector Mendel’s lilting baritone greeted him after two rings.

“Hello Mendel,” George said, surprised that his voice wasn’t trembling. His free hand certainly was.

“Hello, Mr. Smiley,” Mendel sounded surprised, but George could hear a smile as well. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I, er…” George stalled a moment, and drew in a sharp breath - through his nose, so Mendel wouldn’t hear it - before plowing on: “I promised to give you dinner, about a thousand years ago, before circumstances interrupted us. I thought I might make good on that, if you still had any interest.”

George closed his eyes. A guilty pain shot through his injured hand. On that January day “a thousand year ago,” when George was “free as air,” and terrified, and vindicated, with his life turned upside down, he had giddily decided that wherever this new friendship with Mendel might take him, he was willing to follow it.

This decision had gnawed at him often, in the intervening months.

Now that he was acting on it, his stomach churned with a new fear: the thought that he had perhaps misread certain aspects of their interactions. Inspector Mendel’s emphasis on his bachelorhood. The suggestive undertones of his word choices. A few small touches that went somewhat beyond what George might consider the ordinary range of social graces and man to man companionship. He desperately wanted to polish his glasses, but only his right hand, with its mutilated fingers, was free. He felt his left eye twitch.

“Oh? That sound wonderful, Mr. Smiley,” Mendel was clearly grinning now. Perhaps George had been right after all. Or perhaps he had not.

Later, after the phone call finished, he was glad he had intermittently put down the receiver to write down details in his shaky, left-handed way, as he found that he remembered absolutely nothing of the conversation. His professional memory had been too occupied with unprofessional anxieties. On another day, this slip might alarm him, but he was already far too alarmed by nearly everything else in his mind.

-

When he arrived at the little restaurant, he breathed a sigh of relief. His mental Ann had been berating him the entire drive there for overdressing, but now he saw that Mendel wore a suit as well, a gray affair, obviously un-tailored. Nonetheless, it hung extremely well on him. George was suddenly even more self conscious about the too long sleeves of his dinner jacket.

But Mendel smiled at him, and George smiled back as he stepped out of his car. Mendel stood with his arms at his sides, comfortable, but also obviously keeping his weight on both feet. A policeman’s pose, ready for violence at a moment’s notice. George shuddered at the thought, feeling eyes on his back.

Inside the restaurant, a young girl with whom Mendel seemed to be acquainted led them to a booth.

“What’s the occasion, Inspector?” she asked, with a nanny’s too-bright smile.

“Finished a case. Mr. Smiley here was consulting on it. Thought I’d treat him, since he was the one who solved it.” George felt his stomach drop at the use of his name - some part of his brain was convinced he was back in the field. Of course, that was ridiculous. Even if Mendel was inclined to do so, there were all sorts of reasons why referring to George by a fake name would be a terrible idea, not least because there was no possible reason two good friends couldn’t have a friendly dinner together in a little restaurant in Mitcham.

George edged himself into the fairly narrow space, while Mendel slid into place across from him. Mendel paid no attention to the little laminated menu. George, on the other hand, peered at it, feeling self conscious.

“I haven’t, er, been here before,” George said, as he brought the menu near to his face. The typeface was abysmally small. He could barely read it. Perhaps that was just nerves.

“Well, the beefsteak is good-” Mendel started, before George cut him off:

“I’m sure you know best about this place. Why don’t you do the ordering?” Mendel seemed surprised, raising his eyebrows at George, but nodded. He raised a hand to bring the waitress back. She had only just left, but was already absorbed into the chatter of the restaurant, busy serving another table. George made note of the other patrons, stealing quick glances at their faces, and at their shoes. Were there any he’d seen before that day? For a moment, he imagined he saw Ann, and shuddered.

The girl made her way back over and Mendel ordered for them both. She smiled at Mendel, the too-bright smile again, and seemed to take no notice of George. When she was asked, hopefully she wouldn’t be able to give a good description of him. But his surname was, unfortunately, memorable, so that barely mattered. George’s stomach twisted. He probably wouldn’t even be able to eat the food Mendel had ordered for him.

“So, Smiley-” Mendel began, and coughed, then shook his head. “So, Smiley, how’s the hand?” George winced at this line of questioning, but he supposed it was reasonable. They had not, afterall, been in contact for a few weeks.

“It’s healing, slowly. I can hold a pen, though writing is not comfortable yet. What about your head?”

“Kept me in bed a for a few days. They told me not to jostle it for a while still, and be careful where I walked, but I’m alright.”

George frowned as he thought about the horrible cracking noise the butt of the pistol had made against Mendel’s skull, and shivered. For now, for this dinner, for this evening, he was blocking out the identity of the perpetrator, and could fully appreciate the horror he still felt at seeing Mendel so brutally subdued. He nodded.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” George said. He twiddled his tie in his good hand.

“It’s quite alright,” said Mendel, his face instantly soft, his voice quiet enough not to be overheard. “I was happy to help you, Smiley. I always will be.”

George blinked, catching his breath. He realized he’d been holding it the whole time Mendel had been looking at him. He gave Mendel a smile so hesitant that he wasn’t sure he was smiling at all, but he must’ve been, because Mendel smiled back.

And suddenly things were back to normal and Mendel was cracking a joke to the waitress as she approached with their food. He got a laugh back, a genuine one, not the over-cheery waitstaff laugh, but a belly-laugh, unbefitting for a girl like that. She nearly dropped their plates.

Mendel ate quickly, at the pace of a boy with five brothers, or a workman accustomed to short lunch breaks. George found himself mesmerized by Mendel’s hands. Despite his eating speed, he was deftly slicing his steak into tiny pieces, and scooping forkfuls of the resultant hash into his mouth. His knife flashed, and George watched Mendel’s slim fingers playing around the shining metal. He had always been impressed by Mendel’s dexterity.

When it came time for the bill, George insisted on paying. That had been their original agreement, afterall. It wasn’t much, but Mendel kept arguing until George pressed the weight of the fact that he had invited Mendel, and thus ought to pay.

When they stepped outside, Mendel offered him a cigarette, which he took with pleasure. Mendel lit one for each of them, with his unusual lighter. George watched as he flicked the lid open and lit the flame all in one fluid motion, the blue spire towering over his hand.

George sucked on the cigarette gratefully. Mendel hold his in his lips, only taking a very occasional drag, mostly letting it burn down to a stubb. They watched the cars roll past together.

“I took the bus here,” said Mendel. “Knew you’d be driving.”

“Oh, should we drive back together, then?” George asked, stupidly.

“I’d like to.”

“I would too.” George punctuated this statement with a nod. Ash fell from Mendel’s cigarette.

“You wouldn’t mind if I drove, would you?” Mendel asked.

“Oh no! Of course not. But are you meant to be doing that, with your head and all?”

“Not really, but it’s only a short way.”

Eventually, he acquiesced, and gave Mendel his keys.

George watched as Mendel handled the gearshift. It obeyed him more smoothly than it ever had George, despite the fact that Mendel had driven this car all of twice. And it fit nicely into his large palm, where George’s sweaty hand often slipped around.

“So, Mr. Smiley.” George started when Mendel spoke. “Would I be right in thinking this might become more than a... _friendly_ nightcap?” George’s good hand twitched.

“Well…” George looked away. Perhaps he had been wrong after all. He felt the sweat bead on his forehead. “You did rather imply…”

“I did.” When George glanced back, he saw that Mendel was grinning. George let out a single breath of laughter, more from the release of tension than anything else. He smiled back at Mendel.

“I’m glad.”

Most of the rest of the drive was passed in silence. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes. Along the way, George managed to rest his right hand gently on Mendel’s thigh. Mendel gave no indication that he noticed except for a small jerk of the steering wheel, and a slight quirk at the side of his mouth.

When they arrived, George rushed after Mendel up the steps, and nearly crashed into him while he was fumbling with the key. He stood for a moment, still far too close, inhaling the scent of polyester, wool, and laundry powder, and underneath it the natural musk of a man at the end of his day, before stepping back and glancing around. In his mind, small men armed with Russian-made cameras hid behind every bush, and he could nearly hear the clicking of the shutters. George felt his mouth quirk into a bitter smile. He was out of a job anyway. Who would even bother to watch him?

He followed Mendel into the familiar entryway. It was dark except for what little light filtered in from the street. Mendel strode off, not needing light to find his way, a quality of which George approved. But George needed it, and he didn’t know where the light switch was. It wasn’t until George heard the zip of curtain runners that he realized Mendel was closing the blinds.

George was suddenly conscious of the wetness of his own hands. He scrubbed them against his trousers, all the while worrying insanely that Mendel might hear the swishing noise and know what he was about.

George heard a final zip and then a light clicked on. Mendel was grinning at him.

“Let’s see about that nightcap, then.” He disappeared into the kitchen. George glanced at the sofa, but wanted to wait until he was invited to sit down. He was unsure if Mendel expected him to follow into the kitchen.

Mendel reappeared with two glasses of amber liquid, which George suspected by its shade to be some type of brandy. He swirled them absently, before putting them both on a pale green painted end table.

“Don’t just stand there,” Mendel said, and gestured to the sofa. George sat, feeling shaky but not actually feeling himself shake. Mendel passed him his drink and sat beside him.

“You know, it would probably be appropriate to call each other by our Christian names, if that’s alright, Oliver,” George heard himself getting pompous as his nervousness returned. He winced, but Mendel laughed.

“Right. Funny how that works. I guess you can call me Oliver then, George.” Mendel’s voice tripped a little over George’s name, and George was comforted by the fact that perhaps he was not the only person for whom this was a somewhat terrifying situation. George was distracted, however, by ... _Oliver_ placing his large hand over George’s own where it rested beside him. George’s nerves were so shot that he nearly jerked back in surprise before allowing himself to relax into it. He smiled slightly, Oliver’s warm, powder dry touch calming him immensely.

“You know, Oliver,” George began, and then shook his head, and restarted: “Oliver, I haven’t done this before.” George’s words were rushed. Oliver looked surprised for a moment, then nodded.

“Thought you might say that.” Oliver was smiling at him and George felt himself blush.

“But you have?” George asked, and felt a fool.

“I’m a retired bachelor, George. What do you think?” He was mostly grinning, but there was a teaspoon of bitterness behind it, an old pain. George nodded. He rested his other hand on top of Oliver’s, and Oliver took it. George felt a moment of embarrassment at seeing his own fat, childish fingers interlaced with Oliver’s slim ones, but he was immediately distracted by admiring Oliver’s hands, and appreciating their touch on his skin. Oliver squeezed George’s hands and and massaged their backs with his fingertips, so gently that his broken fingers were not disturbed. George closed his eyes.

“Not falling asleep on me are you?” Oliver joked, withdrawing his hands. George had been so hypnotized by the quiet intimacy of the moment that when Oliver broke the silence he was surprised into laughter.

“I swear I was only shutting my eyes for a moment,” replied George in cheerful self-mockery, and Oliver snorted.

“If that’s how you feel, we’d better move on to something more exciting,” said Oliver, looking positively wicked. George’s breath caught, and he was still thinking of a reply when Oliver took his hands again and began to kiss the backs, one after the other. George squeezed Oliver’s wrists in lieu of a reply, and drew Oliver toward him, until their faces were only a few inches apart.

And Oliver kissed him.

It was a surprise, in some respects. As much as George had been obliquely imagining this, he hadn’t dared contemplate it as a potential reality, even when he was intentionally setting out to make it one. The sensation was odd, too. In all of his considerations, George hadn’t accounted for Oliver’s mustache. It made everything scratchy, but not in an unpleasant way. George could feel the chappedness of his own lips. He found himself pulling Oliver’s lower lip between his own, unchastening the kiss. He felt Oliver breathe in sharply through his nose. George could taste the brandy in Oliver’s mouth. He snaked an arm around Oliver and pulled his body closer, and Oliver reciprocated by running his tongue along George’s front teeth. They kissed like that, frantically, fascinatedly, not unromantically, for an age and a half, until a new anxiety seized George, and he pulled away.

“You’re not,” he started, breathless. Mendel looked at him, bushy eyebrows nearly touching as his face furrowed in confusion. “You’re not going to report me, are you? To the Circus.” It was one of the horrific possibilities that George had pored over endlessly while contemplating his telephone, and he had discounted it for many good reasons that he could not quite remember now, but the fear rose in him anyway, thoughtless and irrational, until he could do nothing but blurt it out.

Oliver recoiled, his face going from perplexed to hurt.

“How could you think- I don’t hurt my own kind. I never took those kinds of assignments when I was young, and I certainly don’t now that I’m bloody retired. What about you, George? Are you planning to report my sexual habits to the Circus?” Oliver almost spat this last, and George shrank back from him, filled with instantaneous guilt. It wasn’t as though Oliver would have told him if he was, anyway. The question was pointless.

“No! No, of course not. I’m quite… enjoying your company, and besides, look at me. I’m no one’s idea of a Mata Hari.” George looked at his hands. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I oughtn’t to have said that.” Oliver’s face softened.

“It’s alright, George. I remember what it’s like. Being afraid for the first time.” George felt humiliated. Mendel had lived with this fear all his life. He must think George a cringing coward.

Oliver kissed him again, and this time it was softer, less desperate. George tried to put as much apology as he could into the kiss, and Oliver seemed to accept it. Oliver’s hands cupped George’s cheeks, and George rested his own on Oliver’s shoulder blades, reveling in the flex of powerful muscles under the skin.

“You know this is really…” George said as he came up for air, “Really very… nice.” Oliver gave him a smug look, and kissed him again. Somehow, Oliver’s left hand migrated to George’s thigh. The touch felt like little pinpricks of electricity, and George found himself making a rather embarrassing noise. Seemingly taking this as encouragement, Oliver began to knead George’s soft flesh, and moved his other hand to rest just on the top of George’s buttock. George wriggled involuntarily, but when Oliver began to pull away, George wrenched him back.

Somehow, Oliver ended up across George’s lap, a knee on either side. George thought of Ann, and immediately felt disgusting. This was her favorite way of leading him to bed, and her favorite method of trying to distract him from the other beds she was busy jumping into. But Oliver wore woolen trousers, not a skirt artfully rucked up to give George the maximum contact with what lay beneath, and Oliver’s weight was imposing, unlike Ann’s slight frame. Other differences were beginning to make themselves apparent as well, and George shivered with anticipation at the thought.

George allowed his own hands to slide down to Oliver’s lower back. He rubbed small circles over the tight musculature, and felt more than heard a short, appreciative rumble. George shivered.

George was as fascinated with and… _appreciative_ of the fact that Oliver desired him as he was of Oliver himself. Each time Oliver squeezed a fold of his flesh his stomach jumped with excited nausea. He could barely raise his eyes, as the way Oliver was looking at him made him weak. He gave a minute wriggle of the hips, and Oliver showed his appreciation by pressing him back into the sofa with the renewed force of the kiss. George gasped. He could feel a very distinct stirring in his nethers.

He pushed Oliver away for a moment, and Oliver seemed confused, until George touched a single, experimental finger to the bulge in the front of Oliver’s trousers, and shivered. George wanted very much to see what was under that rough fabric, but at the same time he was terrified. There would be no going back from this. George shut his eyes.

“Oliver.” He opened them again. This time his voice _was_ shaking. “Do you think you could take me to the Bridal Chamber?”

Oliver grinned.

“I certainly can, Mr. Smiley.” And Oliver took him by the hand and led him to the staircase.

-

George woke to the soreness of an unfamiliar bed. As he stretched, his joints cracked more than usual, and he was painfully stiff. He was also alone, but this did not strike him as odd. He had woken up alone every morning for the better part of two decades. Except… he remembered the previous night, and that this bed did not belong to some strange hotel he had run to in a fit of paranoia.

Terror shot through him. Inspector Mendel had been a honey trap. He was, at this very moment, on his way to the Circus to tell Maston everything. Or he was bringing the police. There must have been photographs - had Mendel quietly “neglected” to close the blinds on some window?

George glanced around. No, all the blinds appeared to be closed, and he’d made a full inventory of them last night when he entered the room, and they had been closed then, as well. Downstairs, then? George hopped out of bed, and began haphazardly collecting his clothes from the floor. He’d slept in the nude, too exhausted by Mendel’s ministrations to re-dress himself. He felt sticky, as well. He needed to bathe. But most of all he needed to get out.

His shirt was only partly buttoned as he ran down the stairs, and he’d left his socks where they lay, donning only his shoes. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, but carried it flung over his shoulder, and it flapped behind him as he ran.

But the sight that greeted him at the bottom of the stairs stopped him cold. It was Mendel, standing in the kitchen wearing only a pair of pajama trousers, holding a spatula and looking perplexed. Then, certain things that had been blocked out by panic began to reach George’s senses. The chatter of morning radio. The crackle of a fry pan. The smell of cooking bacon. George took a deep breath, sat down at the base of the stairs, and trembled.

“George?” asked Oliver.

“I’m… quite alright. Thank you.” George hid his face in his hands.

“What-” Oliver started, and then seemed to think better of it.

“I woke up alone. I thought, perhaps, that you had- you were- that it was a trap.” George heard the click of a burner turning off, and Oliver’s soft footsteps. The stair depressed as Oliver sat next to him.

“You thought I would tell someone. That I’d seduced you, and I was planning to sell you.”

“Yes.” George felt Oliver’s large hand on his back, rubbing small circles. Then Oliver gathered George against his side, and put his arms around him. George pressed his face into Oliver’s shoulder, and took a few shuddering breaths. His right hand throbbed, reminding him that he had no right to be enjoying himself.

“You’re alright, George.” Oliver squeezed George’s hand, and they stayed like that until George felt ready to face the world. Then Oliver kissed him, and George smiled. “Come and have some breakfast.”

Oliver had made a full spread, and everything but the bacon, now half-cooked in the frying pan that he’d turned off, was ready. Two plates, already neatly laid out with fried eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and hash browns, sat on a tray. Oliver had been intending to take their breakfast up to him. George felt a painful twinge of affection, and winced. What had he done to deserve this?

And he’d suspected Oliver of betraying him. He turned red.

George ate looking at his plate. It wasn’t until he saw Oliver reaching out his fork to steal a piece of sausage that he looked up. Oliver was grinning, and dangled the fork between his fingers far more delicately than seemed appropriate to his rough hands. But then, George knew what those hands could do. He turned red again, for rather different reasons. Oliver held out the fork.

It wasn’t until the sausage was brushing his lips that George realized Oliver’s intention, and snorted. He took the thing between his teeth and pulled it off the fork carefully, with every intent to tease, but the sausage broke, and half fell onto George’s plate, splashing them both with tomato juice. Oliver cackled, and George tried desperately not to choke with laughter.

A thought occurred to George. He reached out for Oliver’s hand and kissed the fingers, one by one. Oliver raised his eyebrows, then gasped as George brought the index finger into his mouth and sucked.

“So, that’s how you’re going to play, Smiley?” Oliver said. His voice was a croak, and George shivered before nodding, finger still in his mouth.

Somehow, George ended up all the way around the table and in Oliver’s lap in about three seconds. In two more, Oliver had a hand down the front of George’s trousers. George looked around the room, terrified that there might be an open window, but the blinds were still drawn from the night before. Of course they were. Oliver was no fool. George rolled his hips into Oliver’s palm and gasped, before pushing him away.

“Upstairs?” he gasped.

“Yes.” Oliver sounded equally desperate, and his thin pajama trousers left little to the imagination.

This time, it was George who led the way.

-

“I’m not twenty five anymore, you know, George,” Oliver said as he flung an arm over George’s chest. “You might wear me out.” George blushed, but the statement was untrue. Oliver might be nearly two decades his senior, but he had far more stamina than George when it came to matters of the bedroom. George was perfectly prepared to fall back to sleep, but Oliver began to speak to him.

“You said you hadn’t ever with a man before,” Oliver said. His voice was quiet, not a question, but a gentle prompt.

“No, I hadn’t. I was married, Oliver.” George pressed himself backwards, further into Oliver’s welcoming embrace.

“That doesn’t stop most people.” Oliver’s breath raised the hairs on the back of George’s neck.

“I had never… considered it, really. I knew it happened. I went to boarding school. I was in Security! But I never… thought about it.” George wanted to bury his face in the pillow. Oliver stroked his side, and he relaxed, slightly.

“I’ve known since before I could read. That’s why I never married. Didn’t want to. I always thought you…” Oliver trailed off.

“What?”

“Some men, they know, but they don’t. They’d rather live life as normal as possible than act on anything. I thought, maybe, that was you.” George nodded, sleepily, then shook his head.

“No. No. I was never… I never chased women, not the way some people did. But I love Ann. I loved Ann.” _Not that he’d ever desired her body the way he desired Oliver’s._ But that... wasn’t important.

“Or I thought maybe you and Frey had almost-” Oliver stopped as George jerked away.

“Don’t say that name. Don’t you ever. Don’t speak of him.” George sat up. Oliver looked abashed. “Please,” George added, softening.

“I’m sorry, George, I didn’t mean...” George reached out and squeezed Oliver’s hand. He didn’t want to discuss it anymore, but he couldn’t be angry with Oliver.

“It’s alright,” George said. It wasn’t, but he wanted Oliver’s company more than he wanted Dieter’s grace. Oliver nodded. “Come here.” Oliver sat up, and George buried his head in Oliver’s chest, drifting slowly into a dreamless sleep, letting Oliver’s strong arms protect him from Dieter’s unquiet ghost.


End file.
